


Raised Amongst Dwarves

by starshipslytherin (orphan_account)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, I was too lazy to change it, I wrote this two years ago and it's probably bad idk I didn't reread it before publishing, Reunion, Time Travel, also sorry for the first person pov, also the canon timeline is a hundred percent messed up, maybe one day I will, this I know of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 07:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12031239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/starshipslytherin
Summary: The narrator, a young elf, found herself trapped in a vault in a world that she is not familiar with.All she knows is she was trying to save her little son in the Battle of Gundabad, and there was nothing but fire for a moment, and she woke up several centuries and two Ages later, not very positive her husband Thranduil made it, but somehow he did, and the little son became a grown elf. Read what happens when they meet again, a young and adventurous lass and her king, who has seen more of the world than anyone can bear.





	1. Capture

In ferocity, I kick the stupid golden bars, not giving a damn about how that makes my foot feel, for at least it makes the anger leave my soul, anger and disappointment at myself and the knowledge that I should have known better. They stole my weapons - all of them, even the knife I kept in my cleavage, as though they had sensed it, that little (admittedly good-looking) golden haired elfling asked me to hand him the knife I hid. He had known it, for Aule's sake. That wasn't fair. Not to mention I didn't even know what was happening to me.  
My life had started out well. Born with a high status, grown up in the iciest region and one of the most beautiful parts of middle earth, played with dwarves all winter, never needed any kind of manners, grew up, discovered the world was bigger than our palace and the woods around it. Got married, had a child, moved to a different palace, you see, the usual. Learnt how to behave, but mostly didn't because my husband found it funny. A sometimes overly serious, but very gentle, handsome young lad. And he could even be humorous when he felt like it. And an adventurous spirit dwelled within him. A lot of that. He never had a heart of gold, I am well aware of that, but he had a heart of silver, a big one, and that is more than most people do.  
That was when things had gotten weird. Really weird, curious. Sad.  
There had been this huge war. And if there was anything I had always been good at, it was fighting. Perks of growing up both as a member of an old tribe known to produce the best warriors of middle earth, and amongst dwarves. It's hard getting them to like you if you can't fight, so I learned it. Anyway, so I fought. We fought side by side, my husband and I, and it would have gone well had I never made my son a miniature long bow and a small wooden sword. He had smuggled himself into our food carriage, believing his toy weapons would actually help in any way. I had been this close to passing out, really, and I never passed out. It all had gone so fast and it had stopped as quickly as it had started. I had found myself in the dust, my battle axe next to me, my own long bow, which I had been lying on, pinching my back uncomfortably, the little bow I had held on to in order to pull the little one away was in my other hand. And my offspring was not attached to it. Not good, not at all. There was no battle. Not a trace of it. There had been lots of fire and a loud scream in the moment before I must have fallen unconscious. Not a trace of that. There was fresh grass around me and it didn't smell of death and wrath and hatred and war. The air was clean and fresh, birds singing and twittering cheerfully, green trees I swear hadn't been there before. The mighty fortress of Gundabad was withering and falling apart. Some of the rocks were gone, some were smaller and more smooth. It all felt as though hundreds and maybe thousands of sun rounds had passed all at once. And that couldn't be.  
So I fixed the tiara I had worn for battle, cleaned my suit of armour and my numerous weapons, redid my long hair, and started my way back home. I passed countless villages, wondering how men managed to spread so quickly, not caring about their curious stares, and I reached the castle, and I had to sit down. It looked abandoned. Abandoned years and years ago. As I entered it, I could tell it smelled withered, half withered, withering. My chambers, however, had been locked, and as I broke into them picking the lock -which I had always done, since I always tended to loose keys- I saw they still looked as if nobody had touched them.  
In centuries.  
Everything was where it belonged and everything was covered by inches of dust and whatnot.  
That was creepy. And that was when I first realised something was wrong, as in, really wrong.  
I went north west. My husband had once showed me a spot where he wanted to construct a summer residence, and I didn't know what else to do. In my mind I kept hoping he was alive, somehow, that the war had spared him, him and my beloved baby, despite knowing it was damn near impossible.  
But it somehow wasn't. I found the entrance to the palace not on the very glade I had been presented before but a bit higher up on a hill, and it was a real palace, not the common understanding of 'summer residence', that would even have been too flashy for him. The woods weren't as green and full of life as before, but still beautiful in their very own way.  
And what did they do?  
Take me as a prisoner.  
Because I was "suspicious", weapons, you see.  
And there was this extremely oversceptical blonde elfling I mentioned above, and he is probably older than I am, but I'm still calling him an elfling because I feel like it and he doesn't seem as mature as he looks, anyways, he got my temper rising to a critical level when he wanted to inspect my locket. That is private; present from my husband before he had been my husband. At least the elfling got it and left me alone, if you didn't count in stealing my weapons and suit of armour.  
And here I am. All alone, feeling basically naked without my harness on. All I am wearing is a blue silk tunic, the newest fashion, at least where I came from, black tights, and my leather boots. And my silver tiara, not to be taken away from me, my locket, and a bracelet my husband and I made. His silver hair and my dark hair, woven together, uniting our hearts. At least it used to.  
I didn't tell anyone what my name was and I don't intend to. They've been treating me in an inappropriate way and I can't stand them. Of course, I've got what must be the most luxurious cell, but it's a cell, despite the soft bed and the barrel of fresh water and the desk. I'm not using the desk anyway. I just use the parchment and the ink for drawing, sitting in a corner far behind so nobody watches me. I like sketching the faces of myself and my beloved family that I lost and adding wannabe deep and poetic lines under it in most neat and beautifully written Tengwar. I have nothing else to do besides scoff at the guards who bring me food thrice a day and reject it. I don't need to be fed, I wouldn't want to if they brought me dry bread instead of cake and pasties, and I wouldn't if they served me menus worthy of a queen. Period.  
"Milady?"  
I look up and face a golden shimmer. It must be a special day if they sent me the elfling to serve my meal I won't eat. I quickly figured out he has to be some sort of superior to most of the others, they treat him with more respect than each other. That, however, won't make me like him any more. He's annoying and arrogant.  
So am I, but who says that makes me be accepting of annoyance and arrogance? Because it really doesn't.  
"Even you giving me my food in person will not make me eat it", I inform him in my most queenly tone of voice. There's one way to make people listen to you, and even if you aren't a queen at all, behaving like one will get everyone to treat you like one. Simple. And if you reverse that principle, that's where all the bad kings and queens come from.  
"So you don't eat at all?" He looks puzzled, eying what's on his silver tablet, it's some fresh bread, some cheese, and something in a bowl, perhaps soup.  
"I don't need to", I say. I put my sketch down and stand up, walking toward him wearing a winning smile and with a small assertive swing of my hips. He's taller than me, naturally, but he's not huge. I can almost count the very light and small hairs on his upper lip that are practically invisible. Elves don't grow beards. "What year is it?", I ask him under my breath. "Or - what age? I reckon it's not the second age any more, is it?"  
He shakes his head slowly, giving me a look that closely resembles the gazes the mortal people in their villages gave me as I was passing them with my axe. "No", he simply says, his voice barely a whisper, and I don't detest him any more. His eyes are a bit like the ocean, but not quite, a bit too blue and not shimmery enough, but they're almost a bit familiar.  
"Do you know a thing or two about - history?" I can barely believe I'm asking this. My present was never supposed to be anyone else's history ere it became my past.  
He nods. "A thing or two."  
I sigh a bit and nod as well, inhaling deeply."There was this battle, quite long ago - next to the fortress of Gundabad. When the fortress was still - intact."  
"The Battle of Gundabad", he whispers. "It's quite - renowned." He raises one of his beautifully shaped, thin dark eyebrows, as though wondering if I was mocking him while at the same time knowing I wasn't.  
"I didn't know that", I tell him. "So - when was it? How many years ago?" My voice srarts shaking slightly in spite of my efforts to keep it normal, and I somewhat hope he doesn't sense that. Perfect little elfling with his golden braids and his silverly blue eyes and who's not in a cell.  
He just looks at me for two more seconds, his lips not quite closed. "That was - more than twenty-six Valian years ago. A very long time; most elves I know can't remember, and men consider it so far away they don't even really tell their children about it. If elves didn't remember, no one would." I could be wrong, but there might be a trace of melancholy in his voice, even though he doesn't even look thirty and most likely can't remember the battle at all.  
"Twenty-six", I whisper. "That is older than I am."  
He pouts slightly and blinks at me, and all that crosses my mind in this very second is the thought how weird eyelashes are. I just learnt that everything I know is so far away I'll never ever get it back, and even if, it would be withered, just like the fortress and my home and my clothing and my harp that was behind that moldy door with the rusty lock that was so much harder to pick than when it had been the way I knew it. And all I'm doing is wonder why eyelashes look the way they do. Funny, right?  
He swallows visibly and obviously contemplates what to say next. I can literally sense his pretty head working. "How old are you?", he finally asks. Creative. My heart is pounding in a painful manner. At least it seems to realise how serious things are, unlike me and my uninterested-in-the-real-problems brain.  
"Nineteen", I say, and as his immature and friendly eyes meet mine again for a second, an elfling's eyes in an aldult's body, I inadvertently hear my mouth add, "Almost twenty."


	2. Solution

"An old-fashioned suit of armour, silver, perfect condition, as though forged months ago. Second age style. Just like the weapons. A battle axe, two blades. Three swords and seven knives, the smallest one hidden under the prisoner's clothing, a long bow made of wood that is barely available nowadays, and a bear's tendon. Three dozen perfectly balanced thin arrows, tips probably made of silver. And a beautifully carven toy bow, made for a toddler. We don't know why she was bearing the latter object at all, my king, and she is not willing to tell us."  
Thranduil nodded pensively and signalled the warden with a dismissive hand gesture to sit down. His eyes wandered to the young guard on the next seat, who stood up quickly and bowed his head.  
"My king", the guard started, "we are not sure where she even comes from. She looks more tanned than a Sindarin elf and paler than a Silvan elf, furthermore, she has a very unusual eye colour. She speaks in a strange way. However, we are unable to make her communicate with us in an effective manner."  
He awkwardly stood there in silence for a few moments, nervously licking his lower lip - it was his first council ever - until Thranduil explicitly allowed him to sit and let the next guard speak, who had a significantly higher position amongst the guards.  
"Her old-fashioned, but doubtlessly expensive tunic, her silver tiara and necklace, and her prideful demeanor made us presume she had a background of high status. However, we do not know whether she was born into it, as she seems to lack some high-status courtesy. When my youngest brother and I -", she side glanced at the first guard next to her, "- guided her to her cell, for instance, she repeatedly informed us she could walk on her own. And she has been refusing to accept any meals since she came here, even when the prince himself decided to serve her personally."  
She, who was used to councils, sat down as she had finished to speak and the king didn't seem to have anything to add. He never did. He just turned to his son, raising an eyebrow. The latter spoke, but he wasn't required to stand up.  
"I talked to her", he said, well aware of and gleeful about the fact he had made it further than all of his father's wardens, officers, and guards. "She asked whether it was still the second age, but seemed to know it couldn't be, and she asked about - the Battle of Gundabad, but without knowing of its significance. She seemed in shock as I informed her when it took place, she said it was older than she was. According to what she said, she must be nineteen, almost twenty Valian years old."  
The king's lips curled barely visibly. "Well, Legolas", he said in an amused tone of voice, "now that you appear to have formed an emotional bond with our mystery prisoner, you might solve the riddle and find out about her name. And - how would you describe her eye colour?"  
The young guard who had mentioned the eye colour nervously jumped to his feet.  
"Brown, my king", he said. "Light brown. Golden. Greenish. It is hard to describe."  
Thranduil made him take a seat again, looking pleased with himself, but not only that. The other emotion on his face was hard to decipher. He continued to speak.  
"Everything leads us to one conclusion", he said, and with one more glance at the two guards and putting on a rough accent, he asked: "Did she talk in this manner? 'I have legs to walk on my own, you see, thank you very much!'"  
Legolas tried not to laugh, not being used to his father behaving that way at all. The older one of the two guards stood up. "That is exactly what she said and sounded like", she confirmed and sat back down.  
Thranduil remained silent for a little while ere he spoke again. "That was a second-age dwarvish accent. The conclusion would be - we either have a young lass obsessed with an age full of war and destruction, or - what we might call a time traveller grown up amongst dwarves. May I see the weapons she bore?"  
The warden stood up, bowed slightly, and left the room, only to return a minute later with two arms full of silverly metal and one large and one small long bow. She carefully put everything down on the table. The king got up and examined what he had asked to see. He carefully, almost reverentially, picked up the axe, putting it back down after a moment, and he reached for the toy bow. It was of indeed very beautifully carven beech tree wood. Something was written right where he had expected it.  
"How does she spend her time?", he distractedly asked while taking a look at one of the three swords. "Drawing in a corner, scowling at guards?"  
"That pretty much sums it up", said Legolas.  
"I knew it", Thranduil said calmly with a winning look on his face, but not only that, his expression had something else to it.  
"I shall talk to her alone. You are all dismissed; thank you."  
The warden and the two guards bowed and exited. Thranduil silently handed his son the toy bow and left him behind alone without saying another word.


	3. Release

With a loud yawn, I let my head fall back at the wall and add my newest sketch to the pile of drawings. I'm bored and I don't really think the elfling, who was the only one I had a decent conversation with, will come back anytime soon. I'm just not made for rotting in a cell. I need fresh air, twittering birds, green leaves. Snow, wind, whatever, maybe a room with a fireplace, who knows, I just need freedom, going wherever I want whenever I want.  
My drawing depicts a sweet and rosy little face, my son as an infant, never will I forget what he looked like, and felt like, and the feeling of that small warm body right next to my heart, a tiny living entity that loves and needs you unconditionally. And now he's gone. One might say I failed.  
I look up mournfully and jump at the sight of a large white and brown and green thing at my cell door. The thing moves. I wave it hello. The thing frowns slightly and says my name. How does the thing know my name? I didn't tell anyone. I curse aloud as I recognise the thing. The thing smirks.  
The thing looks steaming hot and has grown in height since our last encounter. And become even more handsome. My face burns.  
"What?", I ask insolently and come closer. My threatening stance probably looks plain ludicrous. You see, it used to work perfectly when I wasn't at the very least two feet shorter. Not good. I don't suppose standing up on my tiptoes is making it any better, so I kind of give up.  
"I am not going to ask how you incessantly and effortlessly continue to get yourself into trouble", the thing remarks with the same weird accent as everyone and a voice so deep it gives me shivers.  
"That only happens when you are involved in some sort of way", I say.  
"Is that so?" Damn. The voice. The face. The height.  
"You've really grown up, little one", I smirk playfully. I never used to cease teasing him about being a few months younger than I am. Or was. Now he's clearly older. "And yeah, that is so. It was your guards who captured me, in case you didn't know."  
"Thank you for informing me", he says. I never thought he could grow any more attractive, but he obviously did. "And I reckon they captured you because you must have looked like a heap of weapons on legs."  
"I'm directly coming from a goddamn battle", I hiss. "Of course I am bearing an appropriate amount of arms."  
"An axe, three swords, seven knives, two long bows, thirty-six arrows?" He frowns amusedly, a wicked gleam in his sparkling silver eyes. They are like water, deep and shimmery and sometimes you can't see all the way to the ground. And they're still the same, except for the adventurous youthful gleam in them that must have faded long ago.  
"Preparation", I shrug.  
"It is an age of peace", he says.  
"Finally", I answer.  
"And do you know what happened to you?"  
"Not a clue."  
"I'm much older than you now", he starts hesitantly.  
"I can tell. Suits you", I compliment him sincerely. I might be blushing.  
"And - I assumed you were, well, dead. However, I never felt the urge to remarry. Now that you are back - technically, you are still my wife."  
"Don't mind it", I purr in infatuation, trying my best not to drool over his looks. I'm going crazy and I don't know what is even happening to me, but it feels good, like being a tad bit tipsy after having a good goblet of wine.  
"You are much younger now -"  
"Probably still smarter", I grin.  
"So you are fine with -"  
"What if I'm not?", I drawl, all fuzzy-headed because I'm feeling so hot. Probably look like a maniac. "Will you let me rot in here if I'm not?"  
He sighs both amusedly and nervously. "Of course not", he says.  
"I'll remarry, you know? I'll remarry you." I smile, all nuts, most likely, and nudge his stomach. "Muscles", I sigh.  
"Can you think clearly?"  
"No", I giggle. "I never thought clearly in my whole life. But if I could, I'd stay with you as well. I'd just ask you whether you still wanted me before drooling over you."  
"You've been all I wanted all the time", he whispers frankly.  
"Good", I smile, still gawping at him like an idiot. "Set me free, o glorious saviour", I warble, trying to make my voice sound especially deep and beguiling.  
"I forgot", he smiles apologetically and unlocks the vault. I run to grab my drawings, fold the pile once, and take his arm that he offers, helplessly staggering around next to him. Being that dazed is something that last happened to me when I first saw him, now thirty-two Valian years ago, and I really like it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I found this buried in the drafts of my old wattpad account and decided to publish it because I remember having strong feelings about this idea back when I wrote it, and I'm currently using my old Tumblr account about the Hobbit so I remember this and I remember having a crush on Thranduil and he's still hot, sooo there's that.  
> I'm also adding the original notes I found with the story here.
> 
> "- 1 Valian year = 144 mortal years ("sun rounds")  
> (Don't blame me if I use that too often)  
> \- Also don't blame me if I get dates and Ages and years wrong. Sorry. Tried to do research, but nothing really helps if you're bad with numbers. Fuzzy maths, my mistake, but it should be about the story itself anyway.  
> -Don't murder me for neglecting some canon details. The films did it all the time too.  
> -I'm just as geography-savvy as I am good at maths. I'm not going to start reading any maps for a short story. Not even if the great Tolkien himself drew them. And if I feel like making up places in middle earth, accept it. It's a short story. My choice.  
> -Thank you for reading ❤"


End file.
